


Cherry Pit

by breakdownheavensdoor



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Body Shots, Drinking, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28594218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakdownheavensdoor/pseuds/breakdownheavensdoor
Summary: Dream meets George, an elusive dancer at the Cherry Pit, and falls pretty hard.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	Cherry Pit

**Author's Note:**

> i doubt it would happen but no cc's allowed!

The neon lights gleam in George’s eyes. The Cherry Pit. Dream was never one to hang around obscure strip clubs on Tuesday nights, but something in the way George carries himself begs him to stay.

Among the masked filth of the club, the red haze and subtle smell of sweat and desire, he blends right in, invisible unless you know where to look. 

Dream knows where to look.

“What’s it gonna be, mister?”

George’s voice is pleasant and lilting, and Dream has to remind himself that it’s all a game with him. Just a twenty-three year old with a bit of sex to spend and money to make. 

Dream doesn’t respond, allowing his eyes to rake down George’s body. Frustration is evident in the scrunch of his eyebrows as George shifts his hips. 

“Always gotta make this so fuckin’ difficult, huh?” 

Dream grins, takes a drag from his cigarette. Marlboro Gold. He likes his cigarettes how he likes his men; smooth and mellow with a clean finish. George is nothing short of an exact replica, all sleek, toned muscles under soft skin with a poise like he knows how much he’s worth. He allows the smoke to spill out of his mouth before he responds.

“What are you doing here?” 

“What?”

“Why are you here?”

It’s nothing aggressive, just a simple question.

The change in atmosphere is so close to being tangible Dream can taste the aggression radiating off George. One thing Dream has found is that George ebbs and flows like the tide. Right now, he is indignant and bristling, eyes narrowed and simmering with defensiveness. 

“I like the money and I like the attention. If you can’t give me either then there’s plenty of other easy wallets I can go after.” He makes a move to leave but Dream grabs his arm.

Easy. Dream curses himself, wallet weighing heavy in his pocket. George’s words are a harsh reminder that that’s all he is, another wad of dirty cash on one of countless nights. He lets his hand slide down George’s chest anyways, lets himself be guided to a back room, lets George give him a lap dance on the couch which isn’t covered in enough Febreeze to hide the knowledge of the sins that decorate it. 

It’s not until George strips the bills from Dream’s fingertips and leaves that Dream berates himself for falling into the same trap again, but there’s something so alluring in the way George knows the consequences of his every action. The way he captures his attention so easily, the way he knows that Dream will be back for more the next day, and the next, and the next. 

Everyone else at the club sees the longing in Dream’s eyes, how badly he wants George to be his, his to love and fuck and take care of.

But they also know that people who work at strip clubs for more than just the money, people selling dances and bodies like lemonades, people like George, have a hard time belonging to anybody. 

-  
“Did you like the dance?” George drawls. He’s a little drunk.

Dream is quiet for a moment, allowing himself to revel in George’s costume, just a plain white shirt and jeans. The facade of power is gone, leaving someone who could really pass for just nineteen. Just a college kid drinking his finals away on cheap booze. 

“A little self-indulgent, no?” He’d never admit it, but he had enjoyed the sight of the twenty-three-year-old circling the pole onstage a little too much, body awash with reds and purples under the glow of the lights. 

Dream flags down the bartender and orders an Old Fashioned. Gone are the days of drinking trashy, saccharine sweet cocktails from kiddie pools in some spoiled rich kid’s basement. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see George swallow slightly as he swirls the amber drink. He takes a sip, all slow with a look in his eyes that says it isn’t the drink he’s trying to savor.

“Can I do a body shot off you?” Dream almost chokes. The question is posed far too innocently for what it entails. He manages to hold himself together. 

He nods, tongue too dry to speak, and George pulls together three barstools, motioning for Dream to lay down. Dream submits wordlessly and allows George’s surprisingly rough fingers to drag the hem of his work shirt up, exposing his chest. The cold shot splashes onto his navel with a jolt and he jerks, nearly spilling the tequila as George’s eyes narrow in amusement. The lime comes next, placed almost artfully between his open lips, and finally salt is sprinkled across his chest. 

George’s tongue is warm as he licks up the salt, slowly rasping across the white grains. His eyelashes cast pretty shadows over his cheeks as he laps at the tequila, and when he flicks the lime out of the older man’s mouth and replaces it with his lips, let’s just say it’s over for Dream.


End file.
